Poppy had been doing such a good job working herself up that she hadn’t been paying much attention to her surroundings. When she suddenly burst through a thicket of low trees, she was surprised to find herself in a small open area.
The ground was covered with soft grass and wildflowers. The woods had already begun to darken with evening shadows, but a few slanting rays of sunlight filtered through the branches, filling the clearing with the last pieces of the golden afternoon.
Nothing seemed to be moving, not a bird or squirrel, spider or beetle. Even the leaves were still. She glanced up into the trees, half expecting to see a goblin grinning down at her, but she saw only interlacing tree branches and a dark green canopy of leaves that looked almost black in the dusk. The slight breeze that had cooled them off earlier in the day had died away. It was as if she had somehow stumbled into a hidden glade, a place that had fallen under some sort of enchantment.
A shiver rippled across her skin. There was no such thing as magic, of course, no such thing as spells. Even so, she held her breath and listened. Surely, she should be able to hear a truck driving down a road or a car horn blaring. . . .
Instead, she heard a whir overhead and looked up to see bats winging through the air, a steady inky stream against the violet sky. Seconds later, they were gone, and all she could hear was the sound of her own heart pounding.
Suddenly, she realized that she couldn’t hear Franny or Will, either. Just minutes ago, they had been close enough that she could hear Franny squeal in dismay when a cobweb brushed across her face.
And now . . . nothing.
The back of her neck prickled. Poppy stood very still. She was absolutely certain that someone—or something—was behind her, watching her.
I should just turn around, she thought. I should be brave, I should turn around and yell, I should scare whoever it is away. Yes, that’s exactly what I’ll do! On the count of three. One, two, three . . .
She hesitated. What if something really terrible was standing behind her, just waiting for her to turn around before it leaped at her from the shadows?
Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. But if you’re that scared, then just run home.
And what about Rolly? Are you really going to leave him with whatever it is you think is lurking in these woods?
Poppy bit her lip. She wanted nothing more than to run home, now, as fast as she could. At the same time, she couldn’t help feeling that abandoning Rolly in a dark, scary, bat-filled forest was not the kind of thing big sisters were supposed to do. Not good big sisters, anyway . . .
There was an enormous crash, and Will and Franny came bursting into the clearing, their faces red and sweaty. Franny’s ponytail had come loose, and she had twigs and leaves caught in her hair; Will’s T-shirt was ripped, and his sneakers looked as if he’d walked ankle-deep through mud.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Franny said breathlessly. “I was beginning to think you and Rolly were lost.”
“Why didn’t you give a shout?” Will asked irritably. “That was the plan. We all agreed that whoever found him would yell—”
“Oh, who cares?” Franny snapped. “Come on, let’s go home.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Poppy stared at her brother and sister. “We can’t go home without Rolly!”
Now it was Franny and Will’s turn to stare at her.
“What are you talking about?” Will asked, pointing behind her. “He’s right there.”
Poppy whirled around. Someone was standing at the edge of the clearing, half hidden in the shadow of a massive oak tree.
“Hello.” Rolly stepped forward into the clearing.
A wave of relief washed over Poppy, followed almost immediately by a wave of anger.
“Rolly, where have you been?” she snapped. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I was right here.”
“You weren’t here a minute ago,” she said suspiciously.
“Yes, I was.” He smiled sunnily at her. “You just didn’t see me.”
“Didn’t you hear me calling for you?” she said. “Why didn’t you let me know where you were?”
“Come on, Poppy,” said Franny impatiently. “You found him and he’s fine.”
“I am so sorry, Poppy,” Rolly said, tucking his hand in hers. His eyes shone with tears. “I truly did not mean to scare you. I promise I will never do it again.”
Poppy had to resist the urge to pull her hand away. Rolly hadn’t cried since he left the crib, and he had refused to hold anyone’s hand from the time he could walk.
She looked at Franny and Will, with their messy hair, muddy shoes, and dirty clothes. She glanced down at herself. Her knees were skinned up from crawling through undergrowth, her T-shirt was stained with sweat, and her fingernails were rimmed with dirt. She didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that her hair was a mess of tangles.
But Rolly’s white shirt was still spotless; his sneakers looked as if they’d just been washed; and his face was clean and bright.
A small, familiar feeling of panic fluttered under her ribs.
Still holding her hand, Rolly started down the trail, so insistently that she was forced to follow.
“Rolly?” she asked. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He stopped and looked up at her. “I’m fine, Poppy,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Ten
It took Poppy almost an entire day to figure out that something was very wrong.
It began at breakfast, when Rolly sat at the table without a murmur, ate all his oatmeal without protest, and finished the meal without knocking over his milk glass, spilling his juice, or upending the sugar bowl.
When Franny entered the kitchen, yawning, she saw Rolly and stopped dead in her tracks. “Did you take my hair gel without asking?”
“Franny, please,” said Mrs. Malone. “You know how I feel about baseless accusations before breakfast.”
“But look at his hair,” said Franny. “You can see the comb tracks.”
“I think it looks very nice,” Mrs. Malone replied.
“Thank you,” said Rolly. He patted his head proudly, took a sip of milk, and delicately wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“Well, I’m going to check the bathroom,” Franny insisted. “And if I find my hair gel is missing, you are going to get it!” She stalked out of the kitchen.
Rolly gave her a sunny smile as she left and said, “You look nice today, too, Franny.”
Will glanced up from the comics section, frowning at Rolly. “What’s wrong with you this morning?”
“Nothing at all. I feel quite well,” Rolly said cheerfully. “Thank you for asking, Will. May I please be excused from the table?”
Poppy’s and Will’s eyes met. The only time any of the Malone children asked to be excused was when they were visited by their Great-aunt Agnes (a steely-eyed old lady with strongly expressed opinions about the lack of manners among modern youth).
Surely, Poppy thought, surely her parents would suspect that something was wrong.
But her father was busy rummaging through a drawer for fresh batteries, and her mother was peering at another letter from Oliver Asquith.
“Yes, dear, of course you’re excused,” said Mrs. Malone. “Oh dear, Oliver’s on the run again! He’s somewhere in the Balkans now. I haven’t had a chance to keep up with the news lately—is that a particularly dangerous area these days?”
“You know what they say,” Mr. Malone muttered under his breath. “Hope springs eternal.”
Later that day, Rolly volunteered to set the dinner table (a talent previously unsuspected by his family). He picked a handful of wildflowers and presented them as a small bouquet to his mother. He accepted the appearance of liver and onions without a murmur, then ate every bite. And not only did he take a bath, but he seemed to delight in it, lolling in the warm, soapy water until Mrs. Malone told him he would turn int
o a prune if he stayed in any longer.
Once he was in bed, Poppy went upstairs, intending to brush her teeth, put on her pajamas, and spend an hour or two making notes in her logbook and reading before going to sleep.
But when she got to the bathroom, she froze.
Rolly’s bath towel was neatly hung on the rack, rather than lying in a sodden puddle on the floor. As far as she knew, this was an unprecedented event.
She brushed her teeth thoughtfully, then went to her room, where she tried to settle down with the new issue of Science News Journal. No matter how hard she tried to focus, however, her attention kept drifting. Something was nagging at her, an uneasy sensation that something had gone very wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what. . . .
Poppy yawned. Despite her worry, she was getting sleepy. Her eyelids drooped; she felt herself sinking into her nice, comfortable bed; she pulled her fluffy pillow closer and felt herself begin to drift off. . . .
And then, as these things sometimes happen, the answer popped into her head, jolting her awake.
She scrambled out of bed, her heart thumping, turned on her bedside lamp, and pulled The Little People: A Comprehensive History of Hobgoblins, Pixies, Brownies, and Sprites from under her mattress. Trembling, she flipped through the book until she found the chapter on goblins. She turned the pages, dense with type, until she found the paragraph that she had only glanced at before.
“Goblins,” she read, “have been known to steal a human child and replace it with one of their own children, which are known as gremlins. It is considered a great honor for a gremlin to be chosen as the human child’s stand-in. A gremlin sent to live with mortals is what is known as a changeling. Goblins appear to have some talent at shape-shifting, for a gremlin is said to take on the appearance of the human child so convincingly that his or her own parents don’t immediately realize that a substitution has been made.
“However, even the most skillful changelings have been known to slip up in small ways. Parents and family members often become suspicious after a time when they notice small differences in personality and behavior. It’s been suggested that one can spot a changeling by looking for the following clues: a changeling may appear wiser and more knowledgeable than a human child of the same age, may have ears that come to a slight but noticeable point, and may demonstrate impeccable manners (having been groomed from an early age in human ways)—”
The book slipped out of Poppy’s hands and thudded to the floor. She didn’t notice. She stared at the ceiling, trying to convince herself that what she suddenly suspected couldn’t possibly be true.
But as much as she tried to argue with herself, one paragraph continued to haunt her:
“Through the centuries, stories have been told about children who seemed to have transformed overnight into someone who was odd or different,” the author had written. “Whispers and rumors followed these children around; as they grew up, they were viewed with suspicion by those who feared they were strange beings, wild and mysterious, who perhaps harbored dark plans in what passes for their hearts. These imposters, if indeed they were something other than human, lived out their lives in an atmosphere of loneliness and suspicion. . . .”
The numbers on Poppy’s digital clock clicked over. Midnight. The witching hour, when all those things that go bump in the night decide to come out and play . . .
And that was another thing! They hadn’t been disturbed by knocking in the walls or crashes in the kitchen for the last two nights. Her parents were so upset that her mother had even dug up the family Ouija board (after swearing everyone to secrecy, since no self-respecting parapsychologist would use a children’s toy for research) and organized an impromptu attempt to contact the Dark Presence.
“Close your eyes,” Mrs. Malone had commanded. “I’m dimming the lights. Now, everyone place your fingers on the planchette and concentrate! Perhaps we can entice the Dark Presence to appear by sending out mental vibrations of welcome—”
“Why should we ask some stupid ghost who dumps flour on people’s heads to come back?” muttered Franny, who knew how to carry a grudge.
“I like sleeping through the night,” Will had murmured. “The longer the Dark Presence stays away, the better.”
“Shh!” Mrs. Malone had said. “Honestly, you both know better than to say things like that! Spirits can be quite sensitive to negative vibrations, so let’s all take a deep, cleansing breath and think positive thoughts. . . .”
But the Dark Presence had remained stubbornly silent, not just on that evening, but for the last three days.
Almost since the day they moved in, the nights had been filled with strange noises and the days had been filled with petty annoyances.
Now, suddenly, life was back to normal. Why?
Poppy flopped over and punched her pillow a few times.
Why would the goblins suddenly give up and go home?
She tried to come up with sensible, reassuring reasons—they were tired of playing pranks, they had moved on to another house, they had suddenly reformed and vowed to do only good in the world, there was no such thing as goblins—but none of them were remotely convincing.
There seemed to be only one logical reason for the goblins to have disappeared: because they had gotten what they wanted.
Chapter Eleven
Poppy thought she was far too worried to fall asleep, but she must have been wrong because she was startled awake some time after midnight by a frenzied pounding on the front door.
She got out of bed and went into the hall just as Mrs. Malone appeared, blinking and pulling on her robe. Although she had clearly been awakened from a deep sleep, her voice was bright with hope as she glanced back into her bedroom. “Emerson, did you hear that? I think the séance worked! The Dark Presence has returned!”
Poppy heard a mighty snort from her parents’ bedroom, which meant that her father had just awoken from a sound sleep. “Wha—?”
Mrs. Malone raised her voice. “The Dark Presence, I said! It’s back!”
“Wha—?” There was a crash of glass (which Poppy successfully interpreted as the sound of her father searching for his glasses with a wildly waving hand and knocking over a bedside lamp), then Mr. Malone called out, “Wait . . . ouch! Wait for me . . . don’t face the spirits alone, Lucille!”
But Mrs. Malone sped down the hall past Poppy, knocking a rapid tattoo on Will’s and Franny’s doors as she went and caroling, “Get up, get up, it’s time to go to work! Our ghost has returned!”
She was on the landing before Franny staggered out of her room, her head covered with curlers. And she was halfway down the stairs by the time Will’s door opened and he emerged, weaving slightly, his eyes half closed. “I was having a dream,” he murmured sadly. “And it was a really good dream, too. . . .”
He was interrupted by another pounding at the front door, more frantic this time.
“Don’t answer it, Lucille!” Mr. Malone called out. “You know how moody ghosts can be—”
“Nonsense, Emerson, this is the first contact we’ve had in days!” Mrs. Malone called back over her shoulder before speeding down the last few steps and flinging open the door.
There was no ghost standing on the porch. Instead, there was a man who was very much alive and seemed to be in great distress. His dark wavy hair was disarranged (although in a dashing kind of way), his eyes were shadowed with fatigue (which only made his blue eyes look brighter), and his shirt and khaki pants were dirty and torn (in a picturesque way that seemed to hint at death-defying adventures).
“Lucille!” he cried, his face lighting up. “Thank goodness you’re home!”
“Oliver Asquith!” said Mrs. Malone. “What on earth are you doing here? And what happened to you?”
Oliver Asquith closed his eyes and put one hand on the doorframe, as if to support himself. “What happened to me?” he echoed in a hollow voice. “Horrible things. Vile things. Unspeakable things.”
Somehow, in spite of
the fact that he seemed almost too weak to stand, he managed to pitch his voice so that it could be heard quite clearly, even on the second-floor landing. Poppy suddenly felt that she was in the balcony of a theater, looking down at a stage. For the moment, she forgot her worry about Rolly and watched with interest as Oliver Asquith clutched the doorframe, sighed a deep, shuddery sigh, then opened his eyes to look beseechingly at Mrs. Malone. “May I come in?”
“Of course, Oliver,” said Mrs. Malone. “You don’t need to ask!”
He picked up a stained duffle bag and staggered inside. Once the door was safely closed behind him, he delicately pulled the curtain aside and peered out at the street. “I think I’ve managed to outrun them,” he said. “At least for now.”
Oliver Asquith turned back to Mrs. Malone and took one of her hands between both of his. “I’m so very sorry to intrude,” he murmured. “But I didn’t know where else to turn.”
“I don’t suppose a hotel ever crossed your mind,” muttered Mr. Malone just as Franny drifted sleepily to the landing to join them.
“What’s going on?” she said, looking over Poppy’s shoulder.
“Shh.” Will was watching the scene below, his eyes bright with interest. “Professor Asquith just showed up, and he looks like he’s in trouble.”
Franny let out a squeak of dismay. “Why didn’t you tell me who it was?” she whispered. “I need to change my clothes . . . put on some mascara . . . oh, and my hair . . .” She ran back to her room, clutching her head.
Mr. Malone descended the staircase in a grand manner, stopping on the last step so that he could look down on their midnight visitor.
“Oliver,” he said coolly. “How nice to see you again. I thought we’d lost you somewhere in Carpathia.”
The Unseen World of Poppy Malone: A Gaggle of Goblins Page 8